Here, you'll find my updated masterlist link and my list of rules! I figured it'd be easier to compile it all on one big pinned post.
<<Masterlist Link>>
Rules when requesting:
Please be courteous and respectful of my time. I am a stay at home mom, but I do have a side job so I'll get to your request when I can.
If you have a question, please don't be shy and drop me a message in my inbox. I prefer if you send requests directly to my ask box.
I write mostly character x reader requests or character x reader x character requests. This includes reader Inserts mostly. They will be by default gender neutral. Unless specified by the requester.
I do write smut. I also write fluff. But I won't write any nsfw themes with minors. Don't even ask. I am not comfortable with it and neither should you for requesting.
Please be as specific as possible when requesting. If not, I'll just come up with most of the plot myself which I'm okay with.
Themes I am not okay writing for include: scat, d/d/lg, themes of r*pe, non-con or dub-con, d*ddy k*nk. Underage, etc.
Please specify if you'd like headcanons, one-shots, etc. If it's more specific and requires more time to write, say a full blown fic, please understand that it may take longer for me to get to your request. I try to keep things limited to 2k words or less unless specified.
I do write song fics! So if there's a specific song that's been on your mind that correlates to a character you've been obsessed with lately, shoot the idea my way and I'll see what I can do!
There’s actually this rad place over in Forest Hills. I can’t quite afford it yet, but I’m close. And that is on a coach’s salary. Don’t forget sex ed teacher.
STEVE HARRINGTON
2.01: MADMAX | 5.08: The Rightside Up
Steve’s halfway through a bowl of cereal—midnight comfort food, milk already going warm—when the pounding starts. Not polite. Not hopeful. The kind of knock that means something has gone terribly, spectacularly wrong.
He’s moving before his brain catches up, bat already in hand because Hawkins teaches you habits the hard way. The porch light spills yellow over the steps, and there you are—breathing hard, hair wild, face pale beneath a smear of blood that’s trickling from your forehead like punctuation. There’s a tear in your jacket at the side, dark and spreading, and the way you’re holding yourself says pain you’re pretending not to feel.
Steve opens the door and the world tilts.
“Hey,” he says, because he’s an idiot and because your name sticks in his throat like a prayer he’s afraid to say wrong.
You stumble forward, grab his shirt like he’s the only solid thing left in the universe. “It jumped in front of my car,” you manage. “Demogorgon. I hit a tree. I ran.”
That last word comes out shaky. Brave, but shaken.
Steve swears softly and pulls you inside, kicking the door shut with his foot, locks clicking like exclamation points. You smell like rain and iron and burned rubber. Adrenaline crackles off you, bright and sharp. He guides you to the couch, hands gentle in that way that says he’s trying not to let his fear show.
“Sit. Don’t argue. I swear to God, don’t argue.”
You laugh once, breathless. “Still bossy.”
“Still bleeding.”
He grabs the first aid kit—again, Hawkins habits—and kneels in front of you. Up close, he can see the cut at your hairline, not deep but messy, and the gash at your side that’s already soaking through fabric. Not life-threatening. But real. Too real.
“You shoot it?” he asks, because he sees the pistol when you shrug out of your jacket, the metal nicked and warm.
“Yeah. Might’ve pissed it off.”
“That tracks.”
He cleans you up carefully, like the world might shatter if he rushes. His hands know you—have known you for years—but this is different. Intimate in a quiet, terrifying way. You hiss when he presses gauze to your side, and he apologizes like it’s his fault the universe has teeth.
“You ran here,” he says, softer now. “You could’ve gone anywhere.”
You meet his eyes, steady despite everything. “Your light was on.”
That lands harder than any monster ever could.
Outside, something scrapes against the fence. Steve freezes, bat lifting. You grab his wrist.
“It ran when I hit the street,” you say. “I don’t think it followed.”
Think. The most dangerous word in Hawkins.
They sit there like that for a while—listening to the house breathe, to the clock tick, to the distant hum of a town that pretends it’s normal. Steve tapes your side, ties it off neat and secure. You watch him with an expression he can’t quite name, something between gratitude and the realization of a truth that’s been waiting patiently for years.
“You’re shaking,” you tell him.
He snorts. “I’m fine.”
“Liar. You always shake after.”
Middle school memories flicker between you— scraped knees, secret cigarettes, whispered plans to escape this place. He exhales and leans back against the coffee table, close enough that your knees touch.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he says, finally honest.
“I know.”
Silence stretches, not awkward. Charged. The kind that hums.
“You could’ve died,” he adds.
“So could you,” you say gently. “That’s kind of our thing.”
He laughs, but it breaks halfway, and then he’s looking at you like he’s seeing the answer to a question he never knew how to ask. You reach out first—always have—and cup his cheek, thumb brushing a freckle you’ve known since you were twelve.
“I ran to you,” you say again, quieter. “I always do.”
Something in Steve gives. Years of almosts and not-quites and carefully ignored heartbeats finally snap into place. He leans in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t move now, and when he kisses you it’s soft at first, reverent. Like he’s thanking the universe for letting you make it to his door.
You kiss him back like you’ve been waiting your whole life for this particular safety.
Outside, the night prowls. Inside, Steve pulls you closer, one hand firm at your back, careful of your wound, as if love itself has learned restraint.
The world can end tomorrow. Monsters can roar and tear holes between dimensions. Tonight, you’re alive. You’re here. And for the first time, the thing chasing you isn’t fear—it’s the future, finally catching up.
Project: SHADE [Eddie Munson x OC x slight!Steve Harrington]
⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧
Summary:
Cera Burton was never supposed to end up in Hawkins. But after the night her best friend was killed—and the shadows inside her answered back—running wasn’t an option. Now she’s the new girl with too many secrets, a fake smile, and eyes that never stop scanning for exits.
Then there’s Eddie Munson: loud, chaotic, too observant for his own good. He shouldn’t matter. But somehow between D&D, heavy metal, and late nights at the record store, he starts to.
She didn’t mean to care. And she definitely didn’t mean to get noticed by the people who made her a target in the first place.
The deeper Cera falls into Eddie’s world, the more dangerous it becomes for everyone she lets close. Because Hawkins isn’t safe—and neither is she.
And monsters wear more than one face.
CHAPTER ONE: WELCOME TO HAWKINS
⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧
Setting: Hawkins, Indiana – Autumn, 1984
POV: Cera Burton
———
The truck rumbled like it had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. Honestly, she wasn't even sure how the rust bucket made it all the way from Birmingham, Alabama to Hawkins, Indiana.
They'd taken turns driving. This time, her mom was behind the wheel.
Cera watched the Indiana trees blur past through the cracked passenger window, her breath leaving fog on the glass. Every leaf outside looked dead or dying—orange, brown, brittle. A fitting welcome. The sky had the color of an old bruise, and the clouds moved like they were trying to crawl away from something.
She shifted in her seat and glanced at the rearview mirror. Her motorcycle—her Triumph—was strapped down in the truck bed, sleek and gleaming even under a layer of highway grime. Seeing it back there, her only constant, gave her a sick little comfort.
Her little black cat, Church, had been tucked safely in her crate, riding between them in the middle.
Her mother, Shannon, hummed softly along to the radio. Some cloying track by Starship or REO Speedwagon. Cera tuned it out.
“You’ll like it here,” Shannon said, eyes still on the road. “Small town. Slower pace. Good people.”
“Uh-huh.” Cera didn’t look at her. “And totally not creepy at all that we moved here because of a guy you met three months ago.”
Shannon’s jaw tightened.
“Gary’s not the reason.”
Cera arched a brow. “Sure. It’s just a coincidence he ‘found us a place’ and offered to ‘help with the move’ and ‘knew a guy’ who could get you a job—what was it? Melvald’s General Store?”
“You said you’d try.”
“No,” Cera muttered, “you said I’d try. I said I’d survive.”
Silence stretched like old gum between them. Shannon didn’t push it, which was rare. Cera guessed even she could tell this move wasn’t normal.
She turned back to the window, eyes narrowing as the first glimpse of Hawkins’ “Welcome” sign slid past—
Welcome to Hawkins: A Nice Place to Live!
Spray paint dripped down the bottom where someone had scrawled over Nice with Lies.
“Fitting,” Cera murmured.
———
The little red house sat beneath a canopy of trees at the end of a dead-end street, its paint chipped and its porch sagging slightly to the left. It looked like it had been built to hold secrets. Which meant it would probably hold hers just fine.
Cera stepped out of the truck and stretched, white Doc Martens hitting the cracked driveway with a thud. Her boots were worn and splattered with old paint—but they were Nicky’s, and that made them sacred.
The shadows in the trees shifted, restless.
She pulled off her sunglasses, eyes flicking to the sky, then down to the dirt that ran in a jagged trail toward the backyard. Something in her gut turned over.
She ignored it.
The motorcycle still sat hitched to the back of the truck—her Triumph, jet black with violet trim. At least that hadn’t changed. She reached into her backpack that was slung carelessly over her shoulder, pulled out a battered camcorder, and clicked it on. The screen lit up with static, then steadied.
She panned over the porch, then turned the lens to her own face.
“New town, same bull.”
From somewhere inside, her mother was calling out for her.
She didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, she filmed the yard a moment longer—zooming in on the rusted mailbox with “BURTON” newly slapped on it with crooked mailbox letters.
Permanent?
She doubted it.
Turning it off, she slipped the camcorder back inside of her backpack.
Shannon was already unloading boxes inside from the moving van that Gary had so graciously paid for. At least that's what her mom had mentioned before the long ass move out here. “Can you grab the suitcase? It’s got your music stuff in it.”
Cera nodded absently and headed toward the back of the truck. She grabbed the suitcase—and froze.
And speak of the devil. He was there.
Gary.
Standing by the side of the house like he’d been waiting. Polished. Smiling. Hair slicked back. Slacks and tucked-in shirt like he’d stepped out of a catalog for Trustworthy Dads™. Only his eyes didn’t match the rest of him. Too still. Too knowing.
Cera’s hand tightened on the suitcase handle.
“Cera!” Shannon called brightly. “You remember Gary.”
“Oh yeah,” Cera said, voice dry. “How could I forget?”
Gary walked over like he hadn’t been lurking. “How was the drive?” he asked, too friendly. “Looks like the moving van made it just fine. Roads quiet?”
Cera stared at him a beat too long. “Too quiet.”
He smiled like that was the right answer.
———
Later that night, after everything was unloaded, Cera stood in her new room, dragging the last bit of her belongings behind her.
She tossed her suitcase on the bed, then slowly unzipped it. Inside were the essentials: four pairs of jeans, a black hoodie, two patched out denim vests, a stack of band tees, and a small box of tapes marked “PRIVATE.”
She lined a few up along the sill, next to her Polaroids and her tiny ceramic bat trinket. The walls were painted an ugly shade of beige. Perhaps she'd get around to painting them black someday… if they stuck around long enough. Her guitar case leaned against the wall in the corner, and she crouched to unzip it. Still in one piece. Her Ibanez, violet sunburst finish still gleaming in the fading afternoon light.
She flipped her camcorder back on.
“First impressions: house is weirdly quiet. Mom’s already making salad like we’re on a sitcom. Shadows are tense. And Gary? The same Gary who claims he works a real estate job?”
She pointed the lens at herself again, lowering her voice.
“Creeps me the hell out. I don’t care how good his teeth are—he’s off.”
She moved to the window and tilted the lens downward.
The backyard stretched out into a crooked garden of weeds and gnarled trees. Church was already prowling the overgrowth, tail twitching.
“Church seems into it. Which is deeply concerning.”
She zoomed in on the trees. For a second, she swore she saw movement. Just past the fence line.
Her stomach tensed.
Then her mom called again, this time with sharper edge: “Cera, dinner!”
Cera sighed, hit pause, and tucked the camcorder under her arm.
Downstairs, the kitchen was full of steam and Shannon’s forced optimism. And at the head of the table like he already lived there, sat Gary.
“I think you’re going to like it here,” she said, passing her daughter a plate of pasta. “Gary says the school’s great. Smaller class sizes. Good teachers.”
Cera stabbed a noodle and muttered, “Gary says a lot.”
Shannon pursed her lips. “He’s trying, you know. You could meet him halfway.”
Cera didn’t respond. Just twirled the pasta like it had personally offended her.
“You promised,” her mom said gently. “No more running. This is supposed to be a fresh start—for both of us.”
Cera looked up, her gaze cool. “That depends. You gonna marry him before or after he files my FBI profile?”
Shannon froze. “Cera.”
But her daughter was already rising from the table. “I’m tired. Long day. Think I need some air.”
She grabbed her plate, dumped the rest in the trash, and disappeared outside with the screen door clattering behind her before her mom could say another word.
She tugged her jacket tighter and breathed in the cool night air.
The trees whispered above. Her motorcycle gleamed beside the porch steps. She took a deep breath, sat down on the wooden slats, and lit a cigarette.
From the corner of her vision—something shifted. A flicker of movement.
She glanced left.
Nothing.
Just trees. Darkness. And that weight she couldn’t shake—like someone watching her through a keyhole.
Inside, Shannon’s laughter filtered through the screen door. Gary’s voice, lower, closer.
Cera took a long drag and exhaled.
Hawkins was already pressing in. Like the walls were alive and listening.
But she’d been through worse.
And she had shadows of her own.
———
Back in her room, the shadows felt heavier.
She clicked on her camcorder again and whispered into it:
“Note to self: don’t trust clean smiles or small towns. Something’s coming. I can feel it.”
She turned the lens on herself one more time. Her face looked gaunter than she remembered. The white of Nicky’s old Doc Martens reflected in the window glass beside her.
“Goodnight, Nic,” she whispered. “Wish you could see this freakshow.”
Then she clicked the camera off and sank into the mattress with her boots still on.
Steve Harrington’s Very Inconvenient Fantasy (Steve x F!reader)
Location: Family Video — Tuesday afternoon. Nothing is sacred.
---
Steve stared into space, elbow propped lazily on the counter, the register long since ignored. Some B-movie horror flick played quietly on the overhead TV, but he wasn’t watching it.
He was busy torturing himself.
You.
In his jacket. Nothing else.
Socks maybe.
Socks and that damn smile like you know exactly what you're doing.
He swallowed thickly.
Just the thought of you—sprawled across his bed, fabric half-zipped, collar slipping off one shoulder, hair a tousled mess from his hands—
"Steve.”
His body jerked like he’d been electrocuted.
“What?” he said, way too loud.
Robin blinked at him from across the counter. She was holding a stack of tapes and looking suspicious.
“I asked if you wanted Thai food or pizza for lunch. You okay, Romeo?”
Steve blinked. His ears were on fire.
“Yeah. No. Fine. I mean—Thai. Pizza. Whatever. Food. I eat that. Like, regularly.”
Robin squinted. “Why are you sweating?”
He grabbed a rag and wiped the counter unnecessarily. “I'm not.”
“You're flushed.”
“It's hot in here.”
“It’s October.”
“Global warming.”
She stared. “You were thinking about her again, weren’t you?”
His silence was damning.
Robin dropped the tapes onto the counter with a smirk. “Was she at least wearing clothes this time?”
“Robin!”
“I’m just saying, your crush is, like, aggressively obvious. You get this glazed-over look every time she wears your stupid jacket. It’s kinda sweet.”
He groaned and dropped his head onto the counter.
“I’m going to die.”
She patted his shoulder. “Probably. But at least you’ll die horny and in love.”
The rain's relentless assault on the stained-glass windows painted the chapel in fractured, vibrant hues, a kaleidoscope of light and shadow that danced across Kurt's damp, indigo fur.
He sat on the first pew, a coiled spring of tension, the flickering candlelight casting long, dramatic shadows that accentuated the sculpted lines of his face, the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the intense gold of his eyes. You, beside him, felt the oppressive weight of the world, the venom of the news reports seeping into the sacred space, tainting the air with a chilling dread.
"They say ze holy water is watered down... and ze town has lost it's faith," Kurt spoke softly and solemnly.
Your fingers, trembling slightly, traced the intricate whorls of his fur, a silent offering of comfort, a fragile, tenuous connection in the face of encroaching darkness.
He flinched, a subtle ripple of unease vibrating through him, a tremor that resonated deep within your own soul. The air crackled with unspoken anxieties, with the heavy silence of shared fear.
"It feels… heavy," he admitted, his voice a low rumble, the usual playful lilt absent, replaced by a raw, guttural honesty. The weight of the world, the burden of his otherness, pressed down on him, a tangible force.
You leaned into his warmth, the heat radiating from his body a stark, comforting contrast to the chapel’s cold, unforgiving stone. "We can find our masterpiece, even here," you whispered, your breath ghosting over his skin, a fragile promise in the face of despair. "We can create our own sanctuary."
His gaze, intense and searching, locked with yours, a flicker of something primal igniting in their depths, a spark of defiance against the encroaching shadows.
—I take one look at you, you're taking me out of the ordinary—
"Oh my, my," he breathed, his voice a low, husky whisper. "You are... extraordinary."
You both needed this escape, this newfound solace in one another. It felt like sacrilege, but oh so sweet.
He pulled you closer, his other hand sliding around your waist, drawing you into his embrace. The scent of his fur, a mix of brimstone and something subtly sweet, filled your senses.
His large, unusual hands, surprisingly gentle, cupped your cheek, his thumbs stroking your skin, sending a wave of heat through your body, a slow burn that spread through your veins.
"Kurt I... I want you laying me down... til we're both dead and buried," you confessed.
He teleported you both, the familiar "Bamf!" echoing through the chapel, bringing you to a hidden alcove behind the altar. The air was thick with the scent of incense and old wood, the only light coming from the flickering candles on the altar.
He pressed you against the cool stone wall, his body flush against yours. You gasped as his lips found yours.
When he finally pulled away, his eyes, glowing in the dim light, held a raw intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. His tail wrapped around your leg, a silent, possessive gesture.
"You've got me kissin' ze ground of your sanctuary," he whispered, his lips tracing a path down your neck. His touch was both reverent and demanding, sending waves of heat through your body. He wanted to worship you, as if you were the holy being he pledged his faith to.
—On the edge of your knife, stayin' drunk on your vine—
He lifted you, his strength surprising, and gently placed you on the edge of the altar. His eyes never left yours, holding you captive in their golden gaze. He began to slowly trace the lines of your body with his hands, his touch igniting a fire within you.
"Shatter me with your touch, Meine liebes. Oh Lord, return me to dust," he groaned, his voice a raw, primal plea, a surrender to the overwhelming sensation.
The storm raged outside, but within the alcove, a different kind of storm was brewing, a tempest of passion that threatened to consume you both. His touch, his gaze, the intensity of his presence, it was all too much, and yet, not enough. He was a paradox, a creature of both shadow and light, and you were falling with him.
—The angels up in the clouds are jealous knowing we found something so out of the ordinary—
It’s like a full-blown addiction, but instead of drugs or booze, it’s this fictional guy who’s got her wrapped around his finger. She knows it’s fucked up—knows she’s out here daydreaming about someone who’s not even real—but who cares? This guy? He’s everything. He’s charming in the worst ways, flawed in every possible sense, but there’s just something about him that has her hooked. He doesn’t even know she exists, but she’s ready to fight anyone who says a word against him. Seriously, she’ll defend his honor like it’s a fucking life-or-death mission.
He’s a goddamn trainwreck, but he’s her trainwreck. She’ll put up with all his baggage, his emotional scars, his dark sides, because somehow, that brokenness makes him feel more real to her than any real guy could. He’s messed up, but she’ll fix him in her head every single time. Maybe it’s that thrill of knowing he’s dangerous and untouchable that makes him even more irresistible. He might break her heart in a hundred ways, but it’s the kind of heartbreak that makes her feel alive, even if it hurts like hell.
And it’s never gonna happen, right? She knows that. He’s not gonna waltz into her life and sweep her off her feet. But it doesn’t matter. Because she gets to have him on her terms—no messy reality, no awkward first dates, no risking her heart for real. He’s always there when she needs him, in that perfect little bubble of fantasy she’s built for herself. And maybe she’s a little crazy for it, but at least with him, she’s never disappointed. Every time she replays his scenes, reads the fanfics, imagines their future together—it's like a high she can never quite shake. She knows it's all just a mindfuck, but she’s never felt more alive.
One thing golden era Wattpad writers had going for them was that they knew the importance of a buildup. I'm of the opinion that the sexual tension is WAY more satisfying to read than the actual sex and quite frankly there is a serious lack of non smutty writing.
Like I really miss reading fics/ x readers that start from scratch. Meeting the characters, initial reactions getting to know them, the tension the jealousy the TENSION the freaking tension.
Looking and looking away when they get spotted, touches that feel like they linger but perhaps they didn't and they're both so hot for each other that they think it's wishful thinking. And I don't mean just sweet sunshine romances, darker works can have a buildup too but it seems like so much is just about getting to the smut instead of the psychological aspect.
